You've Got Male
by Lambent Flame
Summary: Mr. Burns joins an online dating service but grows despondent when every woman emphatically rejects him. To lift his spirits, Smithers creates a fake female profile, intending only to give some compliments and make him feel wanted, but it gets complicated when Burns falls for "her". Can they disentangle themselves from the fantasy before their hearts break? Or is it fantasy?
1. Be My Valentine, Monty Burns

You've Got Male

 **Author note: Since it automatically removed my fictional website addresses, I am putting spaces in them.**

Chapter One:

Be My Valentine, Monty Burns

"I can be your Valentine."

Smithers looked up with timid eyes to meet Burns' stony gaze. Mr. Burns scowled, sipped his brandy from his antique armchair, and said simply, "You?"

It surprised and pleased Smithers that his quiet plea hadn't evoked hostility from the object of his affection. "I mean, as long as we're both single, why should we spend the holiday miserable and alone when we could spend it together?"

"I suppose you're right," he said, sighing.

He put his hand on Burns' shoulder. "I know what will cheer you up. I'm preparing a special dinner for you tonight. I'm making roast pheasant, a steak and chard roulade, crepes with raspberry compote, and something I'm keeping a surprise." He moved his hand away and walked toward the kitchen. An hour later, he returned, pushing a cart conveying the elaborate meal. "It's unseasonably warm tonight. Why don't we dine outside in the garden?"

"Yes, very well. I could use a night out of the house."

Smithers' eyes lit up. "I'm glad you think so, sir." He pushed the cart outside to a little table set up with an antique candlestick cradling a candle that bore a lambent flame and dripped wax onto the lacy tablecloth draped over the table. He laid a cushion on the seat of Burns' chair and pulled it back, then guided him into his seat and pushed him in. As he cut and apportioned Burns' dinner, he said, "I hope you like it." Before taking any for himself, he stood at Burns' side, his breath arrested as he waited for Burns' appraisal of his cookery.

"Mm! Excellent, Smithers," he said, taking a bite of the roast pheasant. "Cooked to perfection."

"Thank you, sir," he said, smiling warmly. As bitterly as it stung when Mr. Burns upbraided him for falling short of his demands, it made it all the sweeter when he doled out compliments – Mr. Burns was not a man who would lie to spare his feelings, so he knew they were sincerely meant.

He summoned a string quartet from behind a nearby hedge, and they began to play a minuet. Smithers apportioned his share of the feast onto a dinner plate and took a seat opposite Mr. Burns. For a solid minute, he sat there, cheek resting in the palm of his hand as he watched Mr. Burns eat. If he could not have him for a lifetime, perhaps he could have him for a day.

Although Mr. Burns clearly enjoyed the food, his eyes drooped, forlorn. Smithers furrowed his brow in worry. "Mr. Burns, what's wrong?"

"Aren't we pathetic? Two single men spending Valentine's Day together."

"I love spending my time with you, sir." He uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured them two glasses. Tilting his glass to Burns', he said, "Cheers, Monty."

Mr. Burns listlessly picked up his glass and clinked it with the lightest of touches against Smithers'. "Cheers, Waylon." Each drank from his glass, then resumed eating.

Smithers put his fork down after a minute, noting Mr. Burns' lethargy persisted, intensified. "Cheer up, sir. I still have a surprise for you."

"Well, let's have it."

"Ah-uh," he chided. "Not until you finish dinner." Still staring into Burns' dejected eyes, his own softened with relenting sorrow. "Oh, I'll give it to you now." He lifted a tall metal lid from a tray, revealing a chocolate sculpture of Mr. Burns about a foot tall. "It's premium quality chocolate, but it's still not as sweet as you are."

Mr. Burns snatched the card from beneath his likeness rendered in chocolate. He read it aloud: "'Happy Valentine's Day, Monty – you'll always be the boss of my heart.'" He crumpled up the card. "I can't stomach this charade any longer."

"What charade?"

"Your pathetic simulacrum of a Valentine!" His eyes lowered as he said in a frail voice, "There isn't a soul who likes me for who I am."

"I like you, sir."

"That's what you're paid for."

"I stayed by your side when you lost your entire fortune. I wouldn't have taken you in if I only cared about your money."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. But you're still a third-rate substitute for a Valentine." He sighed ponderously. "Oh, but who would want anything to do with this lonely old man?" Without even looking, he knew Smithers had opened his mouth and so interjected, "And don't say _you_ do!"

"But I do, sir, I do like you. I like you a lot."

"I need a woman, Smithers. And not just some gold-digging harlot. I need someone who truly loves me."

"There are people who love you."

"Who?" Smithers' breath hitched in his throat as he struggled to come up with a vague yet true response. "Mm-hm," said Mr. Burns, convinced he'd caught Smithers in a fulsome lie. He pushed his plate away and stood from his chair. "Valentine's Day is over. Dispose of this."

"Yes, sir," he said, eyelids heavy with dolor, his woe stemming more from empathic concern for his feeling of being unloved than disappointment at his casual dismissal of the meal he had imbued with adoring conscientiousness. As Mr. Burns headed indoors, Smithers sent away the musicians and cleared the table.

Mr. Burns sat by the fire in his sitting room. "Women aren't lining up down the block for me like they used to, Smithers. I'm beginning to get on in years."

"Sir, you're just as beautiful as the day I was born."

"How would you know? You were only a baby then."

"You're in this photo of my father at the company Valentine's Day party." He retrieved a photograph from his wallet. His father stood beside Mr. Burns with a group of employees beneath a banner reading, "We (heart symbol) Nuclear Energy."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Your father brought the most delicious sugar cookies. But no sooner had the party begun, he left work, leaving me no choice but to dock him a half day's pay. What could have been so damned important for him to take off without any warning?"

"Um, my mother was giving birth to me that day."

"Oh, that's right. Today is your birthday, isn't it? Well, isn't my face red; I had forgotten completely."

"That's okay, sir. You don't have to get me anything. Your presence is present enough for me."

"Oh, spare me." He took the photograph from Smithers' hand. "Even then, no one loved me."

Smithers stiffened his lip, angered at the thought of people making Mr. Burns feel unloved and unwanted even as he was gladdened to know the chances of a woman snatching Monty away from him were as slim as his rail thin physique. "If they can't appreciate you, it's because they just don't know what they're missing."

"Well, I sure as hell know what _I'm_ missing. Having millions of dollars is peachy, but it can't buy me a soulmate. I can't pay someone to love me."

"You don't need to pay me," Smithers said, flinching at his impossible to resist slip-up, "...to help you find someone who loves you for who you are."

"It's no use. I've tried chatting up women at soirees and mixers and carousals and wingdings to no avail."

"I have a feeling we won't have to venture far."

"Oh, who am I kidding? Courting is a young man's game."

 _You wouldn't need to court me, sir._

Mr. Burns caught a glimpse of his MyPad on the table beside him. "Perhaps I've been going about this all wrong." He tented his fingers. "Tell me, Smithers – what is the trendy, hep new way people are meeting these days?"

"Um...at bars? Conventions? Coffee shops?"

Mr. Burns scoffed. "Get with the times, Waylon! It's the twenty-first century. I shall harness the power of the Internet to find a girlfriend."

"Are you sure about this, sir? Remember that time you tried Chatroulette?"

Mr. Burns shuddered. "I didn't know a balloon could even inflate up there. I wish I still didn't know." He shook his head as if to shake the image out. "No, no, nothing like that. I'm going to sign up for one of these computerized dating appliances." He took his MyPad into his hand. "I've been looking at some that seem promising. Have you heard of PlentyOfFish?"

"Oh, sure."

"I'll start there." He tapped and swiped at his device for a few minutes, then grunted in aggravation. "Blast it! They're mostly bald old men, and the few women are geeks!" He tossed the device to the ground.

Smithers picked it up. "See, here's the problem. You weren't on PlentyOfFish; you were on PlentyOf _Fission_. This site is designed to facilitate professional networking for physicists and engineers."

"Oh. Well, that's a stupid name for a dating service, anyway. Too cutesy."

Scrolling on Burns' MyPad, Smithers said, "I found a list of dating sites. I'll read them off for you, and you can tell me if one sounds good to you." He looked down at the screen. "Snatch .com?"

"No, I don't want a woman who's into weightlifting."

"E-Horny?"

"Too crass."

"OK Crooked? Says here it caters to wealthy businessmen who skirt the law."

"No. I told you, I want someone who loves me for who I am, not for my financial success."

"The last one on this list is WannaWife. It's the oldest dating site still in operation, and it's geared toward finding a life partner."

"That one!" He leaned forward enthusiastically. "Smithers, set up my profile!"

"Yes, sir," he said, registering an account. "What alias should we use?"

"Hm...Morty Barns."

"And what should I write for your bio?"

"I am a playful spirit seeking someone to share in my good-natured contempt for humanity. I like making money, crushing my enemies, making peons bend to my will, and poisoning pigeons in the park on Sunday afternoons. In my spare time, I enjoy playing the clavichord, sitting by the fire with a good book, and playing a round of golf. I dislike unions, hippies, and sunshine."

Smithers took a moment to edit out autocorrect errors from the device's automated dictation software. "All right, sir. Your profile is now online. Now, we just need to take your profile picture." He pointed the device lens toward Mr. Burns. "Say cheese."

"No, wait, Smithers! I'm not ready. I'm in my robe, my hair isn't combed..."

"Nonsense, sir. You look ravishing." He snapped a picture, and the lighting was very good, making him look brooding, yet approachable. "This is a great picture of you. It really captures your intensity." He uploaded the photo to Burns' profile. "Hm."

"What is it?"

"Well, it says here that to complete your profile, you need to upload ten more pictures."

They looked each other in the eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds before simultaneously donning a gleeful grin and shouting, "Photo shoot!"

They walked into Mr. Burns' costume room, Smithers retrieving a tripod equipped to hold a MyPad steady. He set up the tripod in the middle of the room, then rushed to Burns' side as he sifted through racks of clothing. "We should take pictures with different themes – on the beach, in the jungle, off at sea, in a biker gang – ooh!" He pulled out a leather jacket and handed it to Mr. Burns. "You definitely need to put this on." He pulled out a sailor suit, a safari outfit, and a speedo. He kept some of his favorites of Burns' outfits together on one readily accessible rack in the event that Mr. Burns would want to dress up. "Wear these with the jacket," he said, handing Mr. Burns a pair of leather short pants.

"What shirt do you recommend?"

"Oh, you don't want to ruin the look by covering up those pecs." Mr. Burns disrobed and changed into the leather ensemble Smithers had given him. "Looking good, sir," he said, taking a candid photo of him.

"Smithers, I wasn't ready yet. Now, how shall I pose?" He looked to his feet.

"Get on that settee," he said, pointing to a burgundy sofa with midnight blue satin pillows perched atop it. "No, lie on your stomach. Then stretch your torso up."

"Like this?" he said, adopting the position with a modicum of difficulty.

"Excellent," he said in unconscious mimicry of Burns' usual manner. He adjusted the positioning of the MyPad camera. "Now, show me your sexy." Smithers had him cycle through a variety of poses, lying down, standing up, sitting down, kicking a leg up, hugging a pillow. Smithers then had him change outfits and repeat the process. During the hour, he took several hundred pictures. "Oh, these are terrific." To himself, he muttered, "Boy, am I going to have fun sorting through these tonight."

"These should reel in a real looker, eh, Smithers?"

Remembering the purpose of their impromptu photo shoot, Smithers' eyes grew sullen. "Oh, of course, sir," he said in feigned enthusiasm.

"I think I'll retire now," said Mr. Burns, yawning and grabbing his pink and white nightgown and nightcap.

Mr. Burns wrestled his way into the garments, then Smithers tucked the MyPad under his arm and took him by the elbow to guide him to his room. Mr. Burns fell asleep almost as soon as he'd tucked him in. Smithers smiled and gave his hand a brief squeeze before departing.


	2. The Accidental Catfish

**You've Got Male**

Chapter Two:

The Accidental Catfish

"I don't understand," said Mr. Burns. "It's been a whole month, and each woman I've 'smiled' at has blocked me. My photos are sexy, aren't they?"

"The sexiest, sir."

"And my profile description – it's witty and charming, isn't it?"

"The wittiest and the charmingest – I mean, most charming, sir."

"Oh, I see how it is. You're my magic mirror telling me I'm the most beautiful in the land, only you're too gutless to tell me I'm no Snow White anymore." He turned his back to Smithers, clasping his hands behind him as he stared through his office window. "Perhaps this was a fool's errand. It's time I face facts: I'm too old for love. Maybe at one time I had the chance for true love, but that time has long passed me by."

"That's not true, sir. You're still young enough for love."

"Don't patronize me!"

"You don't have to be young to be young enough for love. It's about how old you are in the humors, not on parchment, right?" He cautiously smiled. "That's what you've always told me, anyway."

"Does it matter if I'm still young enough for love when none of these women see it that way?"

"Sir, I –"

"I don't want to hear it! Get out!" He threw his MyPad at Smithers' head. "And take this dratted appliance with you!"

"Yes, sir," he said, scooping up the device and scurrying to his office. He sat at his desk, elbows pressed against the desktop as he ran his hands in opposing spirals across his forehead. "Poor Mr. Burns...if only I could tell him." He dropped his hands to his lap. "Maybe it's time I told him." His hands trembled slightly and his heart began to race. _That's not going to cut it, Waylon. You'll just chicken out and take it back like you always do, and that would only make things worse._

Burns' MyPad chimed. He unlocked the sleep screen and saw an alert from the WannaWife application. He tapped the icon, as trepidatious that it would be something positive as he was that it would be something negative. He opened the inbox:

 _In your dreams, grandpa._

He wasn't sure whether he was more relieved or dejected as he deleted the message as he had deleted so many others before Mr. Burns had had the opportunity to read them. He also felt an irrational anger toward the women for squandering their opportunity to be with Mr. Burns even as he was glad they had made that decision. Like a homeless person watching Mr. Burns throw out his Thanksgiving feast. _I wish I could tell him. He needs to hear it._ He scanned through the pictures of Mr. Burns he'd posted to the profile, his aesthetic enjoyment short-circuited at the intruding thoughts of Burns' psychic distress. _You need to hear it._

He searched through his digitized photo album for an old photograph of himself dressed as Liza Minnelli for a Halloween party. A few of his friends who had accompanied him that night had experience performing in drag and had been able to do a fairly convincing job assisting in his costume.

He clicked on the button to set up a profile.

 _I am a loyal, fun-loving woman looking for a man with a strong mind and fiery spirit. I am a hard worker and admire men with business prowess. I enjoy going for picnics and bike rides through the park. Films I enjoy watching include romantic comedies, martial arts movies, classic films, and westerns. I collect Malibu Stacy dolls and am a big fan of musical theater. I can't stand laziness or stupidity. I am driven and eager to please, but only for a man who is really worth it._

He posted the profile using the alias of Stacy Smart and 'smiled' at Burns' profile. He took Burns' MyPad into his hand and walked back to his office, rapping cautiously at the door before entreating entry. "Sir?" he said. "Sir, I think you'll want to see this."

"I told you to stay out!"

"A woman smiled at you."

"What the devil are you talking about? There's no woman in smiling distance of me."

Smithers chuckled. "No, I mean your dating profile."

"Come in."

Smithers did as he was told and eagerly brought Burns' MyPad to his desk. "Here you go, sir." He handed the device off and leaned in with wide open eyes, anticipating that rare look of unbridled joy he relished seeing.

He waited in vain. "You may go now," said Mr. Burns, looking into his MyPad and waving him away.

"Are you happy?"

"I'll be a lot happier once you cease asking me such inane questions and get back to work. There's lots of work to be done around here, you know. Nuclear fission isn't all peaches and cream."

Smithers slunk back into his office and shut the door behind him. "I guess I'll have to muster the courage to tell him, after all. If that didn't lift his spirits..."

His MyPad chimed. He looked at the notification alert: "You have a message from Morty." He opened the message.

"You're a beautiful young woman." Smithers swooned. _He thinks I'm beautiful...wearing a wig and heaps of make-up and tape, but still..._ He continued to read: "Your personality sounds just as lovely. How would you like to go out for a cup of coffee?"

"That sounds lovely...but I'm afraid I can't. My schedule is very busy."

"Very well. I can take a hint. But know this: you'll rue the day you rejected Montgomery Burns!"

"No! I really do want you, I do. It's just that I'm painfully shy, especially around handsome men like you. I would make a fool of myself, and I wouldn't want you to see me like that."

"What would it take to overcome your shyness?"

"I guess I would need to take more time to get to know you."

"Let's begin with our real first names. I'm Monty. What shall I call you?"

"You can call me Wanda. Wanda Smith."

"Wanda, eh? So, tell me, Wanda, have you been married before?"

"Once, but it didn't work out. I never had real feelings for him."

"My marriage was similar. I worked so much, I even missed our wedding. At the time, I said it was only because I needed to maximize my profit, but the truth is I never loved her."

"Work was what divided me and my ex as well. I was in love with my work."

"You worked? So I presume you are from one of the lower classes."

"Yes, my family is middle-class."

"Where did you work? In textiles, a tin mine...?"

"Actually, as an office assistant to a wealthy entrepreneuse. Mostly secretarial stuff."

"Who was your employer?"

"Ms. Boyd. She's the current president of the Malibu Stacy Division of PetroChem Petrochemical Corporation, which makes the Malibu Stacy dolls."

"What a coincidence! My assistant is deeply enamored of those dolls. I will never understand their appeal to him."

"Perhaps it's the same reason I like them – they embody beauty, fantasy, and possibility."

"I've never seen someone speak so rhapsodically about a child's plaything before – besides Smithers, that is."

"Your assistant has good taste. What do you think of him?"

"He is my most capable and loyal employee. I also count him as my best friend."

"He sounds like a good catch." He hastened to add, "Not as good as you, though. I love your pictures, and your mind sounds as sharp as your hip bones. I could spend all day looking at your gorgeous physique."

"I could say the same about you. It's a pity you don't have more photographs on display."

"I don't have any other nice clothes. That's why I only have the one photo."

"I will have to remedy that, then. Send me your dress size and your address, and I'll lavish you with the finest of finery."

Smithers' face froze. _My dress size? My address?_ "I wouldn't feel right letting you spend all that money on me when we hardly know each other."

"Then I'll just have to get to know you better."

A couple weeks passed, the two of them spending most of their work days on either side of their shared office wall conversing with each other online. They discussed current events, tax policies, the frustrations of dealing with shiftless employees, the music they enjoyed, the plays they had seen.

"Smithers and I saw this dreadful production of Guys and Dolls at a local dinner theater. The only thing that saved the evening was when someone attempted to kill the mayor. That was riveting!"

"It was a pretty abysmal production. Half the songs weren't even from the musical!"

"Oh, so you were there?"

"Yes. I told you I'm an aficionado of musical theater. When I was in Albuquerque last year, I had the pleasure of seeing your assistant's musical – the one about Malibu Stacy."

"Oh, yes. I don't know what possessed him to work so hard for so long on a play that stood as much a chance of becoming a hit as a play about a child's train set or one about an assortment of dancers auditioning for a part."

"Actually, there are acclaimed musicals with those premises: Starlight Express and A Chorus Line."

"What did you think?"

"Of what?"

"The show. What did you think?"

"I enjoyed it. It's about a young Stacy with aspirations to live in luxury, so she moves to LA and tries to be a starlet or at least land a wealthy husband. She procures the material wealth she sought, but finds her life hollow without love, so she risks everything to be with Tad, her true love who is her servant."

"Sounds like a delightful romp."

"It was pretty fun. But it wasn't just fluff. The story really moved me and helped me continue to believe in true love. The number that moved me most was when Stacy and Tad sang about how fate seemed to keep them apart, but they'd found each other nonetheless – _Sold Separately_. It was all I could do to keep from crying."

"It's really that good?"

"I think so."

"It's a shame I didn't get to see it."

"You could always ask your assistant for a copy of the cast recording. I'm sure he'd be delighted to give it to you."

"I just may do that."

Later that morning, Smithers entered his office to deliver a report from Accounting. "This quarter is one of our best, sir. We're looking at record profits."

"Ah, excellent!" He took the report into his hands and rapidly flipped through the pages before setting it on his desk. "Smithers, remember that musical you wrote?"

"Do I!"

"I'd like to listen to an audio diskette of it. Do you have any copies left?"

"Of course, sir! I have one in my office. I'll get it for you right now," he said, running out to his office. He rushed back into Burns' office and handed him the CD recording. "I signed the booklet," he said, opening the case and flipping open the booklet inside. It read: _For Mr. Burns, the man who continues to inspire me – Waylon Smithers_. "I hope you enjoy it."

"Yes, yes, now get back to your bean-counting." He waved Smithers away, and he went back to his office. Once Smithers had gone, Burns opened his drawer and retrieved a headphone set and CD player, plugged it in, and secured the set around his ears. He listened as he reviewed financial reports. It began with an upbeat opening number about Stacy's dream life. _Well, it certainly is catchy._

As the songs went on – _Thoroughly Modern Stacy_ , _Anything Clothes_ , and _Wishing for the Hat_ – he followed Stacy's journey of becoming one of the wealthy elite in Malibu and partaking of the material rewards of her newfound station. _Her avaricious pursuit really speaks to me._ Her trek to stardom faced a few bumps in the road when her dance skills proved to be lacking compared to her looks in the number _Looks: Ten; Dance: Three_ , and he felt moved by her expression of dejection in the next song, _I'm Not That Doll_. The first act closer, _A Night in the Park_ , was what really plucked at his brittle heartstrings. Her loyal servant Tad invited her for an evening stroll in the park, and she realized she wasn't content being the fiance of a wealthy man she didn't truly love.

The next act began with Stacy dithering over her choice in romantic partners, and whether she cared more for true love or for wealth. Tad sang of his hopeless infatuation in _You Could Drive a Person Stacy_ , followed by Stacy deciding a night of romance didn't justify throwing away her chance at living her dream life in _Forget About the Toy_. In the next song, she attended a party with her fiance and Tad, and she snuck away to the car, where she met up with Tad and they sang of their feelings of being apart in _Sold Separately_.

Smithers stepped inside and stood beside his desk, unbeknownst to Mr. Burns, who was lost in the music as he stared through the papers in his hand, thinking not of finances but of infatuation. Smithers stood there smiling, reluctant to disturb his boss, surmising that Burns was enjoying the score to his musical. When Burns' eyes drifted to the side as the song concluded, he spotted Smithers and paused the CD player.

"Enjoying my musical, sir?"

"It's pretty standard fare."

"Oh. Well, I have the latest safety inspection reports," he said, sighing disappointedly. "I thought you'd like to review them before I forward the NRC their copy."

"Set them on my desk."

Smithers did so and remained standing by his side. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir? Freshen your coffee?"

"Yes, thank you."

Smithers took his half-empty coffee mug and left, not for the employee break room, but for their private executive break room where Burns would retreat to take a relaxing bath. There resided a French press which he filled with freshly ground beans of the highest caliber. As he waited for the coffee to be ready, he scanned his MyPad, hoping to distract himself from Burns' cold reception of the project he'd poured his heart and soul into for years. Maybe he could spend the night with someone and take his mind off the way Mr. Burns time and again rejected every facet of him he offered up. Dewey Largo was usually up for a night of passion on short notice – oh, but he had a boyfriend now. So many of his friends were settling down, and here he still was, doing all the emotional work of being a husband without getting any love in return. He had just opened his Grindr app when he heard a notification from the WannaWife app.

 _You have 1 unread message from Morty Barns._

He clicked it open.

"Wanda, you were right. I never knew Smithers possessed such depth of feeling. Enough to make me feel for a doll! I am listening to it as I write this, but I am nearly through. What struck me was that she initially seemed satisfied with the perks of material wealth, but she remained deeply unsatisfied because she was missing love. As am I. Darling one, read my words and hear my heart speak of a love soft and undying: a love that will be with you always."

While in a way delighted that Burns had plagiarized his love note back to him, Smithers felt almost insulted at the way his deep feelings were cheapened by the comparison. How could Burns possibly feel this way about somebody he had never even met?

Except they had met and known each other for decades. _But he doesn't know that._ While he stood, wondering what to reply, another message came in.

"I long to have you near me. We can find the happiness that Stacy and Tad found for each other. I shall give you nice clothes so you can send me more photographs. You have no need to be shy around me, my dear. Give me your dress size and postal address, and I will purchase and mail them posthaste. They should arrive in a day or so."

He thought back to the dress he'd worn for his costume, which he'd squeezed into after cinching his waist to give him a more feminine figure. "I wear a size 12 or 14 dress. Oh, and if you want to send me some shoes, I wear a 12 double E. You can send them to P.O. Box 76484377, Springfield USA."

"Excellent."

He looked in his phone's address book and called Julio. "Hi, Julio, I hope I'm not bothering you."

"No, not at all," he said in mild annoyance in his photography studio. "Not like I'm busy; I'm just photographing the hottest firemen I've seen in my life for a sexy calendar."

"Sorry, but I need a favor. I need to dress in drag sometime in the next couple days, and I need to look like an actual woman, and you have more experience with drag than I do, and it's really important I look convincing, so–"

"Sure thing, but what's the big rush? Why do you need to look like a woman all of a sudden?"

"It's...I'll tell you later."

"It's for Mr. Burns, isn't it?"

"Yes... Anyway, I'll call you when I need you. Thanks. Bye."


	3. Sleepless in Springfield

Chapter Three:

Sleepless in Springfield

The next day was a Saturday morning, and Mr. Burns and Smithers sat on a bench in the park back to back, sending messages to each other on their MyPads.

"I sent your clothes to the post office last night. They said you could pick them up at your earliest convenience."

"Thank you, Monty. I hope you enjoy my new pictures as much as I enjoyed your pictures."

"I am sure I will enjoy them more."

"I don't think that's possible."

"You really find me beautiful?"

"Beyond measure."

"Our correspondence has been the bright spark of my days. Smithers can be so dreadfully dull. You, on the other hand, strike me as a live wire."

Smithers creased his brows in hurt. "What makes you say he's dull?"

"Oh, you know the type, always concerned with figures and keeping the office tidy. I can't remember the last time I've seen him kick up his heels."

"And when was the last time you went out for a night on the town?"

"I go out carousing with my chums at least twice a fortnight. The whole gang turns out for our revelries."

"That's nice. And who are 'the gang'?" wrote Smithers, trying to catch him in a lie.

"Why, there's Cyril Cosgrove, Cornelius Baxter, Ike Betz, Wilford Winslow, Francis Frost..."

"Sounds like a rowdy bunch," wrote Smithers, knowing full well that Mr. Burns never socialized with these people. "What do you do together?"

"Oh, the usual activities a boisterous young group of pals gets into – patronizing local art galleries, throwing around the old pigskin, sneaking into theaters to watch Clara Bow pictures..."

"Monty, Clara Bow died fifty years ago."

"Oh, all right. They were my friends, but they all died years ago. You'll probably think me a pathetic solitudinarian, but I really have only one friend, and that is my assistant, Waylon Smithers. He's the only man who truly cares about me."

"How do you feel about him?" A long pause. Smithers looks over his shoulder. "Monty? Are you still there?"

"Yes, I was merely thinking!" He turned his head around to peer at Smithers. "And the truth is I don't know how I feel about him."

"How could you not know?" _I sure as hell know how I feel about you._

"I try not to feel anything about him."

"Why?"

"Because it makes it harder to use him as I need him."

"Why?"

"Blast it, woman, is that the only word you can type?"

"Do you feel bad about the way you treat him?"

"I need him to catch me when I fall. Even if it means trampling him underfoot." Mr. Burns shifted in his seat. "In any event, why are you so concerned with how I feel about some mealy-mouthed lackey? He's merely a well-oiled cog in my corporate machine."

"You called him your best friend."

"What of it?"

"I find it hard to believe such a magnificent man as you would be best friends with a mere cog." After getting no response, he typed again, "You do like him, don't you?"

"Does that matter? He does his job and he does it well."

"Why is it so hard for you to admit you like him?"

"Habit, I suppose. My grandfather beat me whenever I showed affection. I hated him for it then, but denying myself emotional ties has enabled my success in business."

"But you told me you want someone who loves you for who you are, not your business skills."

"That's different. He could never love me."

Smithers winced. He whispered, "Yes, I do."

"Do what, Smithers?" said Burns aloud and turning sharply toward him.

"Oh, nothing, sir. Just reminding myself I do need to pick up some eggs at the grocery store this weekend."

"Well, keep your middle-class itinerary to yourself."

They went back to their MyPads. "What makes you say Waylon couldn't love you?" Smithers frantically typed out.

"The man doesn't know how to love."

Smithers was taken aback by this comment. He felt like indignantly replying: " _You're_ saying that about _me_?" but instead typed, "What do you mean by that?"

"He lacks passion. He isn't warm and adventurous like you are. He's too damn timid."

"I'm sure he's just afraid that if he shows too much emotion, he'll lose control and all his emotions will spill out at once, and he won't be able to bottle them up anymore once he's uncorked them."

"How do you know so much about him?"

"I know the type. Hell, I am the type. But being online, I feel free to discuss things more openly. After years of hiding my feelings, candidness is intoxicating."

"Much as I resist it, I am rather fond of the man. There's an innocence about him that I take immeasurable pleasure in crushing." He paused. "But it's more than that." He paused again, his finger hovering over his device as he hesitated to express his next thought. "I saw him take ill in my office once. He was on the threshold of dying. It instills a terror beyond terror in me to think how close I came to losing him." Smithers leaned his head back, the back of his head brushing Burns' shoulder. "And it would have been entirely my fault." After what Smithers would have sworn was the sound of Burns sniffling a tear away, he resumed typing. "And if I keep him at arm's length, it's that much easier if he decides to quit."

"What makes you think he'd quit?"

"Everyone leaves me eventually."

"I won't leave you."

"You haven't even met with me yet."

"You know I wish I could."

"Wanda, I want to meet you."

"I'm not ready yet."

"Why not? I shower you with affection, don't I, my raven-haired enchantress?"

"Yes..."

"And I'm giving you beautiful gowns, aren't I?"

"Well, yes."

"You are a beautiful young woman, and I want to take you out someplace nice."

"I told you, I'm painfully shy."

"Why don't we dine at the Gilded Truffle?"

 _Yes!_ thought Smithers. "No. Not yet."

"Why do you hesitate so? We are obviously meant to be."

"That's what scares me. I'm afraid that when you meet me, you'll change your mind about that."

"Flimshaw! I know you better than I know myself, and I know how you look already."

"I suppose that's true."

"Of course it is. So let's make it a date. I'll pick you up tonight in my limousine and whisk you away."

Smithers hovered his hand over Burns' before lifting it to type out his reply. "I admit, I'm awfully tempted..."

"Give in to temptation, my dear."

"My God, you have no idea how much I want to."

"Then do it."

"Okay. I will!"

"I'll need your home address. How does six sound?"

"It sounds lovely."

"Excellent. I'll tell Smithers to take me there at six o'clock. Once you tell me your address, that is."

Smithers felt his throat constrict. "No, Monty, I just can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm too scared something will go wrong, and things will never be the same between us. I love what we have now, and it terrifies me to think I might lose that."

"You needn't fret. Wanda, you are my soul mate. You complete me, when I didn't even know I needed someone to complete me. Nothing could possibly happen in one night to change that. Nothing."

"I wish I could be so sure."

"But I _am_ sure. Is that not enough?"

"Of course it is. But wouldn't it be better to wait until I can wear one of your fabulous gowns? I want to impress you."

"No. I want to see you tonight."

"Let me at least show you my new pictures, first."

"Very well. But don't keep me waiting too long. I so long to kiss those lips of yours, it's torture to keep us apart."

"My lips long for yours, too, sir."


	4. Waylon Wanda

**You've Got Male**

 **Chapter Four: Waylon Wanda**

"Hold still, or your hips will be lumpier than Chris Christie's ass."

Smithers drew in a breath as Julio affixed padding to his hips in his photography studio. "I'm just nervous. What if he recognizes me? What the hell am I going to say to him then? 'Yes, I've been writing you love letters and sending you sexy pictures of myself wearing a dress and using the name Wanda; now what do you want for lunch, sir?' This was a bad idea; how did I ever talk myself into this?"

"Relax. We'll make you a sexy lady," he said, snickering a bit.

"You're not exactly inspiring confidence," he said, eyelids lowered skeptically.

"Waylon, I said, 'relax.' I'm only laughing because you already make a sexy man. It's a shame you want to hide the goods."

Smithers met the compliment with a bashful grin before his lips tightened in anxious contemplation. "This all got out of hand so fast... I only wanted to make him feel wanted. But now... I think he's falling for me, Julio."

"Isn't that exactly what you wanted?"

"But he's not falling for _me_ ; he's falling for his fantasy of me." Julio began to cinch his waist. "And now he's intent on meeting Wanda. He invited me to dinner at The Gilded Truffle. The crazy part is, I'm thinking about going."

"You can't be serious. The second you open your mouth, he'll know it's you."

"I can make up some excuse why I need to write instead of talk – I've got laryngitis. I just had an emergency tonsillectomy. I had a stroke and my speech is now unintelligible."

"Exactly how far are you going to take this? Until he marries you? I'd like to see that honeymoon," he said with a laugh.

"It's gone too far already. But how can I say no to an actual date with Mr. Burns?"

"I don't know how you can be so hung up on a man that old when you could easily land a much hotter, much younger boyfriend." He gestured suggestively toward himself.

"No man is hotter to me than Mr. Burns." He rushed in to say, "No offense."

"Whatever you say." Julio made adjustments to Smithers' falsies. "There. You're ready. First, try on this," he said, handing off a midnight blue gown to him. He took a variety of photos of him. "Now try this one," he said, shoving a forest green skater dress with a scoop neckline toward Smithers. "The short skirt accentuates those gorgeous legs, and its design draws attention away from those broad, manly shoulders."

Smithers changed into the new dress, and Julio guided him to a set with an antique divan askew to slightly face a fireplace. Smithers looked himself over in the mirror, twisting at the hip. "Looking fabulous." He tried various sexy poses, lying down with an arm stretched over his head, sitting with one knee up and looking coyly into the camera, and many more.

Julio grunted in frustration. "This lighting is terrible," he said, positioning a ladder and climbing up to adjust the overhead lights. "Almost there..." he said, then the light wobbled loose from its fixture and fell on his head, sending him toppling down to the floor.

"Oh my God!" shouted Smithers, hands clasped against his ears. He ran to Julio's side, lifting him in his arms and turning his face by his cheek to inspect for wounds. Noting a streak of blood along the side of his head, Smithers gasped. "I've got to get you to the hospital." He took out his cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.

"This is 9-1-1; what is your emergency?"

"A stage light fell on my friend's head, and he fell down a ladder, and now he's unconscious and has blood on his head."

"The address?"

"492 Deciduous Terrace."

"Okay, we'll send an ambulance right out – oh, wait. It looks like our ambulances are tied up right now."

"Tied up?"

"Chief Wiggum is stuck in his own bathtub, and all the ambulances and fire trucks are on the scene. I'm not allowed to tell you that, but it's just too funny!"

"It's not funny! I think he's seriously hurt."

"They say they'll have a truck free in about forty minutes."

"Forty minutes? We can't wait that long!"

"I'll try to talk them down to twenty minutes."

"Don't bother. I'll take him myself." He hung up the phone, then picked up Julio and brought him downstairs to his car, laying him on the backseat and then getting behind the wheel. It was only once he'd stepped on the gas pedal that he realized he was still in full drag. He considered going to Dr. Nick's "no questions asked" clinic, but given the potential gravity of Julio's injury, he couldn't justify taking the risk on substandard care for him and headed for Springfield General.

He let the car run, standing by the emergency department entrance as he rushed inside to grab a wheelchair and brought it back to his car, then loaded Julio into it and shut off the ignition. He wheeled him inside straight to registration, then immediately to triage.

The nurse, a short, plump woman in her forties, said, "So he fell down a ladder?"

"A light hit him from overhead, a stage light, and he fell off, and his head is bleeding and he's been unconscious ever since."

"I have to get him in bed right away," she said as Julio's eyes fluttered open.

"That's funny," said Julio. "That's exactly what I thought when I met Waylon."

Smithers blushed. "Oh, and about my, uh – appearance, I can explain –"

"I can assure you, here in the ED we've seen it all, sir – er, ma'am. We don't judge."

"'Sir' is fine."

"We'll get him ready for a CT scan, then once we have a room for him, we'll let you know. In the meantime, have a seat in the waiting room."

"Thank you," he said, taking a seat in the waiting area, extremely self-conscious about being in drag in public. He had performed in drag shows a couple of times, but sitting quietly in a hospital waiting room left him feeling far more exposed than performing on a stage in a gay club. _I couldn't feel more awkward,_ he thought.

He was wrong.

Mr. Burns walked in through the doors to the emergency department. He bypassed the registration desk to address the triage nurse. "I have lost a frightening amount of blood attempting to extricate this splinter from my thumb, and I demand morphine." Smithers' eyes opened wide as his face drained of color, and he shrunk in his seat before concluding it was too risky to simply hope to escape his notice and decided to make a dash for the men's room. He only made it halfway before he heard Burns' enraptured cry: "Wanda!" He swiftly approached Smithers, a flirtatious glint shining in his eyes. "Fancy seeing you here." Smithers' hands shook uncontrollably as his knees began to buckle. "Wanda," he said, taking Smithers' hands in his, "you look stunning." He seemed to scrutinize Smithers' hands, feeling them between his fingers. "But why are you here?"

Smithers smiled shyly, then swallowed the lump in his throat and grabbed his MyPad and began to type, then handed it to Burns.

Burns read from the device: "'I'm here for a friend. I can't speak due to a stroke. That's why I hesitated to meet you for so long.' Why, that's nothing to be ashamed of. I've had my share of strokes, no real lasting damage, thankfully. How could you possibly think my feelings for you would change because of something petty like that?"

Smithers merely shook his head, then took the thumb that had the splinter lodged in it and grabbed the end of it with the tips of his fingernails, then pulled it out. He pulled a tube of antibiotic ointment from his pocket and applied it to the minuscule wound, rubbing it lovingly in circles, then opened a bandage and wrapped it around his thumb. He kissed the tip of Burns' thumb, then stared seductively into his eyes.

Burns giggled with the exuberance of new love. "Forget the morphine! You make me feel better than any drug ever could." He held Smithers' hand and laughed giddily. "Let's go to an iced cream parlor." Smithers nodded vigorously. "Then that settles it." He nuzzled his head against Smithers' shoulder while staring with gooey eyes and running his hands up and down Smithers' forearm. "My love, you shall have all the iced cream your heart desires."

As they left the Emergency Department, the nurse said, "Now I really have seen it all."


	5. Some Like it Burns

**You've Got Male**

 **Chapter Five: Some Like it Burns**

Waylon, as Wanda, sat opposite to Monty in a booth at Phineas Q. Butterfat's as they shared a banana split. A swirl of whipped cream lingered on Burns' lips, and Smithers wiped it away with his index finger and brought it to his mouth, then licked his finger clean and wiped away the smudge of whipped cream still on Burns' lips.

"You are so attentive to my every need," said Burns. "That is a very attractive quality."

Smithers smiled. Or rather, he widened the giddy grin that he'd consistently worn for the duration of their date. He'd eaten ice cream with the man hundreds of times, but never while on a date. _I'm on an actual date with Mr. Burns... I must have died and gone to heaven. Or hell. If he's bound for hell, I'll gladly join him. Paradise just wouldn't be paradise without him._

"And you're so agreeable. I could say the sky is green, and you'd nod your head."

Smithers nodded in assent.

"Good, good. Then... may I kiss you?" Smithers slowly nodded, mesmerized. "Then I shall." He leaned in slowly, tilted his head, closed his eyes, and brought their lips crashing together in a quiet frenzy. Their cheeks reddened as Smithers struggled to suppress moans of delight. When they parted, Burns' eyes were wide open, his lips slightly agape, as he sat, still rigidly leaning forward after Smithers had already retreated to lean back in his seat. Finally, in bewilderment, he said, "You kiss just like my assistant."

Smithers' breath hitched in his throat. His chest tight and unmoving, he stared desperately into Burns' eyes, panicking as he tried to devise a satisfactory explanation for his behavior he hoped he would never have to give.

Burns sharply gasped and grabbed at his shirt collar, then hastily added, "My old assistant! Who I had an affair with and was a woman – yes, a woman. She was my assistant fifty years ago. I assure you, I haven't kissed any assistants lately. I've thought only of you, my darling." He rested his hand on Smithers' in reassurance.

 _For a man who has lied so often for so many years, you sure are terrible at it, Monty._ He suppressed a smirk. Even if his tone and body language hadn't been so transparent, Smithers knew that fifty years ago, Burns' assistant was his father, not some mysterious female assistant he'd never mentioned. He reached for his MyPad and typed, "Do you like the way I kiss?"

Burns glanced at the screen, then lowered his eyes amorously. "My dear, your lips taste as sweet as these cherries." He lifted a pair of cherries joined by the stem, bit one off, then held the other in front of Smithers' mouth. Smithers closed his mouth around it and bit off the remaining cherry, leaving the twain of stems bare. "Your kiss is... excellent. You don't kiss like any woman I've ever kissed."

Smithers looked slyly at him, then typed, "I thought you said I kissed just like your old assistant."

Burns' cheeks reddened. "Yes, well... you kiss much better than he did – than she did." He wrung his hands.

Smithers typed, "What made it better?"

"It lasted longer." Seeing Smithers was eager to hear more, he said, "This time, I was the one who initiated the kiss." Still feeling pressed, he added, "And this time, I'm in love with you."

A tear rolling down his cheek, Smithers got up, moved to Burns' side of the booth, and sat beside him. As they wrapped their arms around one another, Burns' eyes widened as he became attuned to the familiarity of their hug, then narrowed as he struggled to place where he knew this feeling from. It proved exceedingly difficult to remember, as thoughts of Smithers kept intruding, distracting from his search for the person the hug reminded him of.

He thought of the lavish Valentine's dinner Smithers had prepared for him. He thought of Smithers tucking him in at night. He thought of Smithers massaging him after a long day dealing with the lazy and incompetent dregs of his plant. And he thought of Smithers' musical, of how Stacy and Tad, once sold separately, had found love in each other's arms.

It seemed every time he communicated with Wanda, his thoughts drifted back to Smithers. He had hoped meeting her in person would allow him to concentrate solely on her without Smithers posing a persistent distraction, but no. He found himself wanting Smithers to share in his victory of love, as he had shared in so many of his other victories. It was a novel feeling, as he had never wished for Smithers to join in the happiness he had found with other women. He sensed that Smithers didn't, or couldn't, understand the joy he'd found coupling with those other women. But this time, Smithers seemed genuinely happy whenever he discussed his fondness for Wanda – no, not fondness. Abject adoration was more like it – a love so deep one would be willing to degrade himself until there was naught but a scrap left of him.

 _She's such a sweet, honest soul. The perfect complement to my avaricious, perfidious vital force. How I would love to corrupt her! No one can be that good and be happy. Like Smithers. When he first came to work for me, he was such a goody-two-shoes, nagging me with his worries whenever he thought we were doing something wrong. He was such a miserable, nervous wreck then, until I set him straight that we all need to do a little wicked work if we are to enjoy our lives, and now he's happier than ever. He was a joy to corrupt. I never quite managed to corrupt his father, though. That man had one hell of a spine._

It was then their lips parted, and he realized that Wanda had taken him in for another kiss while he'd been lost in thought. _Why_ did _Smithers kiss me when he thought the world was ending? Drat! Why does everything she do remind me of Smithers?_ The sensation of Smithers' impulsive end-of-the-world kiss flooded his mind. _Relax. It's only because it shocked and thrilled me so._ Thrilled? That wasn't right. Shocked, yes, but thrilled? _Shut your trap and enjoy her kiss, Monty. You're not making any damn sense._

Burns brought their lips together again, Smithers still holding his spoon although the ice cream, ignored, had long since melted, then said as they parted, "There is something utterly familiar about your kiss." He slid his arms down Smithers' torso. "And something utterly familiar about your hug." He lodged his nose between Smithers' head and shoulder. "And something utterly familiar about your scent." He sighed contentedly, then looked up into his eyes. "Why, it's as if I've known you all your life."

Smithers simply hugged him tighter.

Burns put his hands on Smithers' shoulders and gently pushed him back. "Let's continue our rendezvous... away from prying eyes." He shifted his eyes left to right, scanning for eavesdroppers and interlopers, then stared seriously and seductively into Smithers' eyes. "I want to know you. In the – ahem – biblical sense."

Smithers dropped his spoon onto the floor. Everything he wanted and feared coalesced.

"N-now, we don't have to!" Burns said quickly. "If you don't want to, I understand. We can go back to my place for milk and cookies, if you'd prefer." He looked innocently and pleadingly into Smithers' eyes. "Or, I suppose you'd like me to drop you off at your home now. If I've ruined your evening with my lecherous prodding, I'm truly sorry."

 _Oh, no. I can't give him my address! And he'll probably insist he watch me go inside to ensure I don't get ambushed, so I can't give him some random address._ Smithers reached for his MyPad and typed, "I need to use the bathroom."

"Very well. But hurry back, my love. Don't leave this lonely man to worry about our future together."

Smithers walked briskly toward the restrooms, then slipped away to an employee-only exit out back that led to an alley, then placed tape over the locking mechanism. He pulled out his phone, then dialed a number.

"Hello?" said Dewey Largo.

"Hi, Dewey, it's Waylon. Listen, I have a favor to ask."

"If it's about that copy of the score to Company that Stephen Sondheim signed, you had him address it to me, so it's mine."

"No, no; it's not about that. I need to give a fake address, so I need you to leave your door unlocked so I can walk inside and pretend I live there."

"You didn't commit another felony for Mr. Burns, did you? I told you they'd put you in prison if you kept working for that man!"

"No, no. It's... it's complicated."

"Besides, I'm treating my boyfriend to dinner at my place. I can't involve myself in your shenanigans tonight!"

"Okay. I didn't want to resort to this, but – if you don't help me out here, I'm telling your boyfriend about how you kissed me at the Halloween party."

"You wouldn't!"

"You know I would."

Dewey grunted. "Fine. I'll leave the door unlocked. But you'd better have a damn good reason prepared when you get here!"

"Great, thanks. Oh, and by the way, I'll be in drag."

"Like I said: A damn. Good. Reason."

While Smithers made the phone call, Burns took Smithers' MyPad into his hands and maneuvered to the home screen. _Huh. She plays that Grindr game, too._ He looked at the other apps. Day Planner, WannaWife, WeatherNow, Candle Reader, ViewTube, SpringFace, Words With Fiends, Pyrrha Radio. Altogether quite ordinary. Curious about what kinds of friends she had, for Wanda rarely discussed her social life, he opened the SpringFace app.

His jaw dropped. There was Smithers' face plastered on the top. At first, he thought this must mean that Wanda was Internet friends with Smithers, which would be unsurprising given their shared love of all things Malibu Stacy and musical theater. A second look left no room for ambiguity, though. He scrolled through the posts, most of the ones on his wall penned by Waylon Smithers, the face in the icon plastered with that sweet, innocent smile Smithers had perfected. The other posts addressed Waylon Smithers.

His second thought was that Wanda had traded MyPads with Smithers. Perhaps they had been at a Malibu Stacy function and accidentally switched devices. Or perhaps Smithers had logged on to her device and forgotten to log out. He kept scrolling down Smithers' SpringFace page, going back as far as November.

And there he saw it.

Not the picture Smithers had uploaded to his WannaWife profile; no, he would not be so foolish as to leave that picture up and connected to his name. No, this was a photo a friend of his had posted, a different photo, but one that clearly showed Smithers in his Liza Minnelli costume. It even tagged him: Waylon Smithers. The message, written by someone named Julio Franco, said: "Waylon Smithers (that's Waylon with a 'y') showing us life is a cabaret."

He spotted Smithers coming up from behind him and rapidly brought it back to the home screen and dropped it on the table. As Smithers sat beside him, he stiffened and stared at him, inspecting his every feature, pondering how each one belonged to his loyal lackey, that mouse of an assistant who carried out his bidding with alacrity. He had noticed before that Smithers was an attractive fellow, but he'd never realized he could be truly beautiful. Beautiful enough to make him mad with desire.

Smithers gave a quizzical look, as if to say, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Burns responded to his silent question with, "I'm simply – marveling at your beauty." And it wasn't a lie.

Smithers smiled warmly and embraced him. As he did so, Burns felt his rigidity melt and give way to serenity. Smithers had always had this effect when they hugged, which was why he so rarely requested or tolerated such close contact. A warm and yielding Burns was no threat at all, and his enemies would readily seize control of his empire should he show any weakness.

He pushed Smithers back. "Perhaps it's best I take you home, now. I don't want you anymore," he spat out with his trenchant tongue.

Smithers screwed up his face and sniffled back a tear, but it didn't surprise him. Mr. Burns frequently responded to rejection of his advances on women by issuing caustic insults. He simply looked away and nodded. He typed Largo's address in his MyPad and showed it to Burns.

"I know your address," he said with the hiss of a viper.

Smithers looked puzzled, but simply followed him out to his limousine, riding in the back. It was the first time they had done this. Normally, Smithers drove, and on those occasions when Burns drove, Smithers sat in the passenger seat up front beside him. He dropped Smithers off at Largo's door, then sped away.

Smithers called Largo and told him he could lock his door, then caught a bus to Julio's studio, changed clothes, then drove to the hospital. _Julio's CT scan should be done by now._ He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. _It's going to be a late night._


	6. You've Got Male

**You've Got Male**

 **Chapter Six: You've Got Male**

Mr. Burns paced in front of the fireplace in his sitting room. "That scoundrel! How dare Smithers toy with my brittle heartstrings. Did he find this an amusing jape, tricking his boss into falling in love with him?" He sighed. "I was a fool to think I'd found true love. True love is a lie that only distracts from more profitable pursuits. I bet he fancies himself quite the practical jokester."

But it was unlike Smithers to orchestrate such an elaborate deception to humiliate him. No, Smithers' idea of a practical joke was telling him an offshore account had 100 million dollars when in fact it had 105 million. So why, then? _This must have been another of his guileful ploys to assuage my insecurities. That impudent brown-noser!_ He fought back tears, thinking of all the love he'd poured into a fiction. _She never existed. The woman of my dreams was just a lie. I fell in love with a lie._

"What the devil am I going to do?" _Had we not been in public, I would have fired him right then. But worse than being taken in by such a ruse would be for the whole of Springfield to be privy to my debasement._ "I ought to crush him the instant he sets foot in my office!" He felt a part of himself plead urgently against the proposition. _He only meant to alleviate my misery. And he did enliven my life with those sparkling conversations._ He gulped as he realized that those intimate conversations had been between himself and Smithers – that he'd confided his innermost vulnerabilities to Smithers.

 _Shall I confront him? Lay into him for his dastardly trickery, then cast him aside as serves him right?_ He paused in his pacing and tented his fingers. _No. I'll keep him dangling by a string, slowly unraveling it, toying with him as he toyed with me. Then, once I've thoroughly eviscerated his spirit, I'll cut him loose._

He heard a notification from his WannaWife application and picked up his MyPad, scowling bitterly into the screen. He considered flinging the device into the fireplace, but instead opened the message from Wanda:

"Hi, Monty. I loved our date tonight. I cherish you. I want you to know I only refused going to bed with you because I have to get up early tomorrow. So please, don't be offended. You are the sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on. ;)"

His scowl slowly morphed into a devious grin. He typed out a reply: "My dearest, darlingest Wanda: You have not offended me. I only told you I didn't want you anymore because I wanted you to know that my love isn't contingent on sexual favors. In fact, I want you to meet me for lunch tomorrow. Smithers will pick you up at noon." He added, "And I won't take no for an answer. We don't need to have relations just yet, but you cannot keep professing to love me all the while refusing to even see me."

After a long silence, Burns' MyPad chimed. Two letters: "OK." He could almost hear Smithers' begrudging sigh.

He shot back another message: "I trust you have no early morning appointments in the afternoon? I can show you around the manor, and perhaps your appetite for me will drown out your appetite for food."

"I assure you, I have a hearty appetite," wrote Smithers.

"For me, or for food?"

"For both."

"Smithers will join us for our luncheon. I hope you don't mind."

"Why would I mind?"

"Good. I'll see you then."

Early the next morning, Smithers drove Julio home after he'd been released with a clean bill of health and then drove straight to Burns Manor, his only sleep that night occurring while sitting in a waiting room chair. Between the harsh fluorescent lighting, the hard wood of the armrests, and the thoughts of his surprise encounter with Mr. Burns, it was inevitable that he'd be sleep-deprived. He'd gone over the situation hundreds of times in his head that night, and he could only conclude that the charade couldn't go on much longer. No matter what he did, their hearts would break. "Sir..." he said, sitting behind the wheel and rehearsing his confession. "I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Hurting you is the last thing I wanted."

When he brought Mr. Burns his breakfast, Burns pointed his toast at Smithers, telling him, "Oh, by the way, Smithers, I want you to pick up my girlfriend at noon; we're lunching together. You'll find her address in my MyPad."

"Yes, sir. I'm afraid I can't make it to lunch, though; my mother is, uh, sick in the hospital."

"Who invited _you_?"

"Oh! I thought you were including me in the 'we'."

"Well, I was, and I expect you to dine with us the entire hour."

"But sir, wouldn't you rather have a nice, romantic meeting with your girlfriend, alone? I don't want to be a third wheel."

"No. I want her to see our camaraderie, show her what a socially delightful creature I am."

"But sir, my mother's at death's door –"

"Oh, it's always all about you! Not a thought about the success of my courtship. You will not be derelict in your duties just so you can dwell on your selfish concerns. If you are not there for the entire luncheon, you are fired! And not only fired, but forever banished from my presence. Now, fetch me the stock report."

When noon rolled around, Smithers sat behind the wheel of the limousine. The whole morning, he'd gone back and forth on whether to try to present as Wanda or Waylon. He knew he couldn't swing both; The padding and make-up it took to pull off the look would take far too long to switch between them as people on sitcoms did, and even in those contrived farces, the characters never managed to sustain the deception. He repeatedly brought his forehead crashing down on the top of the steering wheel. "Stupid, stupid, stupid..." he chastised himself. _How did I ever let it get this far?_ He had asked himself this question dozens of times and never gotten any closer to an answer. If anything, he'd only drifted further from the answer.

Mr. Burns sat at his long, formal dining table in a seat facing the door Smithers was to come through. _Will it be Waylon, or Wanda?_ If he could've cashed in, he would have made a bet with himself that it would be Wanda.

Instead, he got Waylon timidly opening the door, then closing it behind him, his eyes fixed on his feet the entire time as he approached the far end of the dining table and pressed his palms against the delicate tablecloth, drawing in a heavy breath before looking up into Burns' accusing eyes.

Adopting an innocently quizzical tilt of the eyebrows, Burns said, "Why, where's Wanda?"

"Sir..." he walked towards Burns' end of the table, his feet feeling like they were filling with molten lead with each step. "Sir, I..." He looked up briefly into his eyes, then blinked some tears away and turned his head. "Please, don't hate me. Give me a chance to explain! Please, let me explain."

"Well?" He pushed his bare plate an arm's length ahead of him. "I'm waiting."

"Sir, about Wanda... She can't make it."

"Oh, give it up, _Wanda_. I know it's you."

"Sir, I never meant to lead you on! I just couldn't stand you thinking nobody loved you."

"So you invented an imaginary friend and lied about loving me?"

"The only lie is that she's a he!" he said indignantly. "Wanda is me. Every word I wrote as Wanda is how I truly feel."

"What did you hope to accomplish?"

"Making you feel loved. That's all, I swear!" He bit his lower lip. "When did you find out?"

"Last night."

"But when?"

"While you were in the restroom. But I admit, I had been suspicious from the time I kissed you." Smithers stared, his lower lip trembling. "Sit down, Waylon." Smithers sat breathlessly on the floor. "Rub my feet," he said, extending his foot toward Smithers.

"What?"

"My feet are sore. Rub them. We'll talk while you do so."

"Yes, sir." Smithers removed his shoes and began to knead the soft pads of muscle tissue amid the fragile frame his bones and tendons etched out of his flesh.

"So, every word you wrote is how you truly feel?" Smithers nodded. "You're not playing at being Wanda anymore, so speak up!"

"Yes, sir," he said, rushing the words out as he kept his eyes squarely on Burns' feet.

"So you wanted to hug me?"

"Yes, sir."

"You wanted to kiss me."

"Yes, sir."

"You wanted to go to bed with me?"

"Yes, sir."

His eyes widened. "You mean you –"

"Yes, sir."

"For how long?"

"At least twenty years."

"Twenty years?"

"Yes, sir."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't even know anymore."

"Even if I wanted you like that, how do you suppose that would work?"

"I suppose we'd go to parties together. Go to shows together. Go on vacations together. Go to lunch together." He looked up into his eyes and smiled the smile of someone who wished desperately but had long come to terms with the prospect of his wish going forever unfulfilled. "The only difference would be that after all that, we'd go to bed together."

"Why did you orchestrate this charade? What did you think would come of it? Did you think you could make me spend my days obsessing over you?"

"No, sir!"

"Did you think you could make me lust after you as if you were Greta Garbo?"

"No, sir!"

"Did you think you could make me fall in love with you?"

"No, sir!"

"Think again!"

"What?"

"Are you so dense I need to spell it out?"

"You mean you –"

"Yes, Waylon."

"How long –"

"I don't love you." He shook his head slowly, steadfastly. "Not the way you love me." He twiddled his fingers along the edge of the table. "But I do... feel for you. I have for as long as you've shown me the real you." Smithers, whose foot massage had gradually begun to lag, halted. "Did I tell you to stop?"

Smithers resumed rubbing his feet. "Sir, I don't need you to pledge your undying love for me. I don't need you to go to bed with me. I'm happy just doing... this." He swirled his fingers around the ball of one of Burns' feet. "Like I've always done."

"You fail to understand the gravity of your transgression." He gripped the glass of water on the table. "We cannot go back to how things were."

"We don't need to go back. We can try going forward."

"To where?"

"Huh?"

"Where would we go?"

"Wherever you want us to go, I'll follow."

"Maybe I don't know where I want us to go."

Smithers took his hands. "You don't need to rush to a decision. You can play it by ear, and I'll take your cue."

"Maybe when I envision my future, I don't see you in it."

"Sir, I promise I'll never make a move on you; I'll never speak of it again; I'll act as if none of this ever happened."

"I'm afraid that is insufficient."

"Monty..." He looked pleadingly into his eyes. "Please, keep me in your life."

Mr. Burns stared straight back at him, his furrowed brow relenting to open and inviting eyes. He gestured for Smithers to stand. Smithers took his hand and rose, Mr. Burns standing up from his chair in time with him. He held Smithers close to him, patted his back, and said, "My dear friend... that is quite impossible."

Smithers exhaled forcefully, his eyes clenching shut as tears dripped from them. "No... I'll do anything. Anything, sir!" He began to sob into his shoulder. "Anything... because you mean everything to me."

"Sometimes, Smithers," he said, picking up his glass of water and looking at him through it, "I feel as though we've been sold separately."

"That doesn't mean we have to stay apart!" he cried. "If Tad and Stacy could make it work –"

"Tad and Stacy are fictional dolls. I don't let musicals guide my actions any more than I let religious texts guide me, even if it was written by you."

"I don't look to musicals to guide me; I look to them to reveal me."

"Waylon..." He ran his hands up and down Smithers' shoulder blades, then pushed him away. "You mean nothing to me."

He turned his head inward to his own shoulder as he winced. "I don't believe you."

"Then believe this: you'll never mean everything to me. You'll never mean more to me than any tool one might find in a garden shed."

"I don't believe that's you talking. That's your grandfather, isn't it? Telling you to destroy anyone and anything that tries to get close to you. But you want somebody to be close to you, or we wouldn't be here."

"Somebody, i.e. not you."

"I know you don't think I'm a nobody. And I do know how to love. I know how to love you, and I'll keep loving you until my dying breath. If I have to love you from afar, then so be it, but there is nothing you can do that would destroy my love for you, because I see right through you. Your cold dismissals, your fiery rebukes – you are so transparent, Monty, I swear you could stand in a window frame and birds would crash into you. You're afraid that if you let someone get close to you, they'll find out you aren't as scary and cruel as you want them to think you are. And if you let them get close, they _will_ find that out, and you know they will, so you shut everyone out. Then you cry about how unloved you are, and like a fool, I sympathized with you, when I shouldn't have, because it's your own damn fault. So if you cut me out of your life, don't you dare moan again about how nobody loves you, because it's a damn lie and you know it."

Smithers' eyes widened, his hand hovering over his mouth. Shocked at how he'd mustered the confidence to speak so frankly under the circumstances, he stared through Mr. Burns, who put a hand on his shoulder and said, "You're right. I do shut people out. I have to. Feelings get in the way of getting what I want. I didn't get to where I am by showering people with love and sympathy. You must know this by now. I am a cold, calculating businessman, and I live life as I play a game of chess. Sadly, Waylon, you are a pawn, whereas I am a king. A king cannot get too attached to his pawns, or he'll make grave errors in strategy. Do you understand?"

"But sir! In chess, a pawn can become a queen."

"And you want to be my queen."

"In a manner of speaking."

"All right, then, Smithers. I won't cast you off – not yet. I'll give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of being promoted to queen."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" he said in a relieved exhalation as he hugged him, then rapidly withdrew. "What do I need to do to prove myself worthy?"

"The first thing I'll need you to do is this: keep a secret for me."

"I've kept thousands of secrets for you."

"Ah, but this one is special." He hugged Smithers again and whispered into his ear, "When I first kissed Wanda, I secretly wished she was you."


	7. Epilogue

**You've Got Male**

 **Chapter Seven: Monty Burns' The Meaning of Love**

"Are you sure you don't mind that I forgot to give you a present again this year?" said Mr. Burns as he took a bite of a frosted red heart-shaped sugar cookie.

"Forgot to give me a present?" Smithers took a seat opposite Burns in the private dining room of Burns Manor. Unlike the formal dining room, where guests would sit many feet away from their esteemed host, this room was the size of an average living room with one round table of polished cedar and a small yet ornate chandelier hanging low in the center. Candles lined the walls, each perched upon a molded brass antique candle-holder. Smithers took a cookie for himself and gestured in front of him. "Everything I want in life is right here."

"I didn't know you were so fond of sugar cookies."

Smithers chuckled at his joke. Still, in the off-chance he was being serious, Smithers rested his hand atop Burns' and added, "I meant you."

Withdrawing his hand, he said, "I know you meant me! What do you take me for, some simple-minded oaf?"

"I know you knew what I meant." He looked nervously back and forth, then started to get up out of his chair. "Are you sure you don't want me to help with dinner? I want everything to be just right for you tonight, and it would be my pleasure to –"

"Waylon, if you want to be my queen, you must learn to adopt a more regal countenance. You are my exalted guest tonight, and you shall act like it."

"Okay," he said, seating himself again and pulling the chair closer to the table. "It _would_ be nice to have servants waiting on me for a change."

They discussed their day while dining on burgers made of Kobe beef liberally topped with truffles, and imbibing from a nice bottle of wine sitting half-emptied on the center of the table.

After they finished eating, they leaned forward, elbows on table as they attended to each other. "Another theater company has been interested in producing my musical," said Smithers, "and they've finally confirmed it today. It's going to play at the Pantages Theater in LA next year."

"Splendid news. I'll have to go see it."

"It's my first big break! And who knows where this could lead? If it does well, it could go on Broadway!"

"I hope it does." He reached out and took Smithers' hand, then said in an insistent manner, "Come with me." He led Smithers by the hand to his favorite sitting room and sat in a burgundy settee by the fireplace. "Light the fire, Waylon."

He did so, then grabbed a folded blue blanket and sat beside Burns on the settee as he unfurled the blanket and draped it over their laps. He looked lovingly into Burns' eyes, hesitated, then clasped his hand. Their relationship, such as it was, had evolved seamlessly from what it had been. In some respects, it had scarcely changed in the nearly a year that had passed. In others, it was worlds away from what they'd known.

True, they still hadn't known each other in a carnal sense. Had not even slept in the same bed together. But they enjoyed more intimacy than any other relationship Smithers had ever been in. They conveyed in glances what most married couples would need an hour to hash out in words. When one was hurt, the other gave him solace before he could even state the need for it or, indeed, identify such a need himself. Smithers had once tried to get him to clarify the nature of their relationship, only to be told, _It is what it is. Are you unhappy with it?_

And to that, he could only say, _No, sir._

"I must confess," said Burns, turning his hand over and interlocking their fingers, "I lied to you."

"About what?" he said nonchalantly, his face placid and unperturbed. He had long since grown accustomed to Burns' mendacious ways, and hearing about his lies worried him no more than hearing about his stocks.

"I didn't forget your birthday."

"I never heard of a man apologizing for _remembering_ his significant other's birthday."

"I didn't apologize. I simply told you I had lied."

"Why would you lie about a thing like that? I don't care about getting some ritual token of your affection. When I said that this," he made a circular gesture in the air between them, "is all I want, I meant that."

"Are you sure you're happy with the way things are?"

"Is the Pope Catholic? Is the sun hot? Is the ocean wet?" He embraced Burns and swayed him slightly before leaning him back against his pillow and kissing the top of his balding head. "I'm unbelievably happy."

Chuckling playfully, Burns sat himself up, then reached into his pocket. "In that case, I have something special for you." He pulled out a small, cubic box with a Tiffany label, then opened the top of it to reveal its contents.

"Oh, Monty..." he said, looking inside. "Such beautiful diamonds!" He held the platinum and diamond cufflinks up against his jacket sleeve. "I love them. Thank you. This has been the best birthday of my life."

"It had better be; those cufflinks weren't cheap."

 _It's not the cufflinks; it's you_ , he thought, but didn't say aloud, for he knew that if he had, Burns would have upbraided him for stating the obvious.

"I want to commend you for your patience," he said, and they each gazed into the fire as if hoping to see the other's face reflected in it. "It can't have been easy."

"What can't?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?"

"Yes, Monty, you do."

"Tonight, when I retire... I want you to accompany me."

"But I've done that for decades."

"I mean... tonight, I want you to stay with me."

Smithers' mouth opened as he looked longingly into his eyes. "Does this mean you want to... know me?"

"Maybe not tonight. Tonight, just hold me and sleep beside me."

Entranced, Smithers leaned in and tilted his head as he pressed their lips together. "Well, I'm tuckered out, how about you?"

Burns smiled slyly at him. "Eager to get me in the sack, eh?"

"Now you're just teasing me."

Once inside Burns' bedroom, they each undressed. Once Burns had donned his nightgown, he looked to Smithers standing there in his boxers. "I had a set made for you," he said, gesturing to the bureau.

Smithers opened the topmost drawer and found inside a matching nightgown and cap. He slid the garments over his head and climbed into bed beside him. He ran the palm of his hand in slow swirls around Burns' chest, then kissed his cheek, placed his glasses on the nightstand, and reached for the lamp to shut it off. "Good night."

Burns reached for the lamp, turning it back on. "Is that all?"

He put his glasses back on. "Is what all?"

"You aren't even going to try...?"

"I thought you said you didn't want..."

"I said, 'maybe not.' But maybe I do..."

"'Maybe' you do? Monty, I'm not going to do anything if you just 'maybe' think you want it. I want our first time together to be... special."

"Ah, the naiveté of youth. Do you honestly believe there is anything special about sex? It's the same no matter who you're with. Some are better, some are worse, but there's nothing special about the act itself."

"It shouldn't be the same at all! What makes it special is knowing you're making the person you love as happy as you can possibly make them, and that they're making you as happy as you could possibly be. It's the difference between love and lust. Have you never had sex with someone you were in love with?"

Thoughtfully, he said, "No. I haven't. Have you?"

Smithers opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative but stopped to consider the question. He had had sex with men he'd had feelings for, men he loved, but had he ever been _in love_ with any of them? "No. I haven't."

"Then how do you know so much about it?"

"I guess I don't know. But I've always wanted to find out."

"I want to find out, too." They kissed in a sudden fit of yearning, moving their hands fluidly across each other's face and torso. When they parted their lips, he said, "I want to find out with you." He nudged the lobe of Smithers' ear with his nose and said in a menacing, demanding yet sultry breath, "Now."

Neither man slept that night.

Afterward, they held hands all through the night and all through the morning as they stared up at the ceiling, trying in vain to get some rest, each too giddy to take his mind off their tryst, each too fretful he might spoil the moment if he said anything. Each silently expressed his glee through sidelong glimpses in the dark. Finally, as the sun shone through the windows, casting the room in a glow of soft, pale blues and purples and brilliant, blazing reds and oranges, Burns said, "You were right, Waylon. It was special." He ran his hand along Smithers' cheek. "Thank you for being my Valentine."


End file.
